Synthetic trees shift barely in the
non-existent breeze,
Rather they move as my hand moves
against them.
I am twenty and eight, at once and
independently,
Exploring what has long been explored,
expecting comfort.
The cloth is a forest and like a
forest, if I stand or stoop,
It all depends on the perspective one
has, or is willing to embrace.
The trees have no trunks, they begin a
foot above,
The floor covered not in needles,
leaves, or debris.
Both are soft, not prickly for these
trees have no branches,
Or the smell of sap, or sap itself, and
the only wood is high above.
An artificial scent lingers and
combines with others natural in origin,
But of I and I, only one smells, the
other merely remembers.
With both hands, the trees offer
minimal resistance to small fingers,
And none to those of elder age: no
structure resists except gossamer threads.
The scent about them; a mixture of
vanilla and rose, nylon and cotton,
Cobwebs and enclosed air, with a hint
of natural exhalations.
Standing tall arms outstretched, or
standing at all one explores,
the passing of time, as compact and as
transient as we allow it to be.
The forest, darkness, artificially
constructed, comes and goes with irregular frequency,
And when it arrives the walls close in
around, but the trees are unmoved.
Yet outside, the passage of time
continues unabated, relentlessly,
Debasing all hope that what remains
will remain untouched.
I'm half-waiting for the true night,
when the transitory separation,
Occurs, and I'm forgetting the
severance which must come.
Mother is leaving for the night, she
clasps a tree to her body,
Mother is gone from my home, and all
that remain are memories.
Poetry Series
2016:
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